


Vespis Irae

by Darklady



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Afterlife, Challenge Response, Gen, so you can't rest when you're dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those folks who told you "You can rest when you're dead." They were lying.</p><p>In answer to the Batman - Specter challenge (from long ago)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vespis Irae

“Porta caelum”, Jean Paul Valley muttered, stumbling to a halt as the glowing pathway they had followed emerged into a vast plain of clouds fronted by a pair of soaring gates.

The Gates of Heaven indeed. Bruce Wayne looked up at the apparently infinite expanse of gold. Hard to imagine. Harder still to accept.

He glanced back at the glowing rainbow arc that settled so gently into this yielding white. He should have noticed when he was walking that bridge. Should indeed have known as soon as he entered the light.

Oh. Bruce knew he was dead. *That* was reasonable. Predictable. To dive the Batwing into a fully armed alien warship must be - inevitably - lethal. That part he had - with some slight regret - anticipated. 

Rigging the bombs in the hold had taken a second set of hands, and Azeral had volunteered. Insisted, rather, reminding the Bat that Azeral was now also Justice League - and that the League never abandoned their own. Never. So when they had transported the others away, Jean-Paul had stayed.

Batman had still vaguely hoped that Azeral might escape. Launching the escape pod just before impact should have allowed the younger hero to survive the fireball. Which he had. Unfortunately, the opposition gunners had been insufficiently distracted - or overly dedicated - and in their last seconds they had blasted the falling orb. And with it, of course, Jean-Paul.

That was far more regrettable, but again... anticipated. Bruce looked to either side, eyes tracking the jeweled walls until they vanished into cloudlessness. What he had not entirely anticipated was... this.

He had rather expected - if not quite hell - then the indifferent realm of clouds to which so many uncertain spirits inevitably were beckoned.

But no - those were the gates. He recognized them.

He had been here before. Or - Bruce looked down at his unarmored flesh - Batman had. The Raven’s power had lifted them here, back when the forces of Hell had risen on the earth. But that time the gates had remained quite firmly shut.

This time?

“Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus...” Jean Paul was still muttering - or praying - and Bruce suspected the ‘Angel’s’ eyes were now solidly shut. Strange, Bruce thought. Given the young man’s sincere piety he would have expected Jean to be more enthusiastic at their arrival. That was, after all, the intent of religion, was it not?

Bruce reached back, taking his companion’s hand and urging him forward.

Strange, he thought, that he should need to.

While it had never been a major point of interest Bruce surely would have answered - if asked - that the devout Jean-Paul was both confident of heaven and rather looking forward to his arrival. Not that the man was suicidal, but from the Frenchman’s enthusiastic interrogation of the returned Oliver Queen? From the easy comfort he had extended to the fearfully wounded Huntress? From the calm prayers that Azeral had recited just before their final battle? Bruce *had* expected his colleague to be at least mildly gratified that the anticipated afterlife had finally arrived as promised.

Instead, it was only Bruce Wayne - the unregenerate and impious - who put his hand to the latch and watched the great gates swing open before them.

“Bruce!” A call from... everywhere.

Bruce looked up just in time to see a red-and-green clad figure tumble out of the light, spinning over the gem-capped walls to fall lightly before him.

“Bruce!”

“Jason!” Bruce’s arms went out instinctively. Easily. Not at all like before. “Heavens.”

“Exactly.” The lithe young man looked up, red hair nestled against Bruce’s shoulder. “It’s so good to see you here.” A deep blush, and the brilliant green eyes were buried again. “Well, not to see you *here*.” Jason continued, voice only slightly muffled by the broad chest he spoke into. “ I mean, I didn't doubt you'd get here, but... that didn't mean I wanted you to...” Another blush, and those jewel bright eyes were back to Bruce’s own. “Well, you know.”

“I know.” Bruce brushed back the red curls that fell so heavily over the pale forehead. “You didn't want me to die. Because that would mean I failed.”

“You *never* failed.” Jason started up, insistent. “When you took out that entire command ship on your own, it was...”

“Reasonably painless,” Bruce cut him off, “but still a failure of strategy.”

Jason snorted. “Don't you *ever* let up?”

“Did I ever let up on you?”

That turned the chuckle to a full-throated laugh. “Oh, Bruce. It’s *good* to see you. It’s been so *long*, and I’ve *missed* you so much.”

“But you’ve been...” Bruce waved at the expanse of infinity before them. “ Ollie told me...”

“Even in heaven, you can miss people you love.” Jason gave Bruce one last hug, then eased back. “Otherwise - it wouldn't really be love, would it?”

“Bruce?” A deeper voice, almost familiar, from over Jason’s shoulder.

‘What?’ A thought, not a word - but Jason read it from Bruce’s sudden stiffening.

“Oh yeh.” Jason stepped to one side, giving Bruce a view of the others that had somehow appeared at the gate. “I’m not the only one who’s been waiting.”

A lovely young woman, pink cheeks damp above smiling lips, rushed forward.

“Mom?” 

“Oh, Brucie!” She flung herself into his arms.

It was her! Bruce blinked back unaccustomed tears. He had never placed overmuch hope in the expectation of any divine ‘reward’, but if this was his afterlife? He leaned forward, breathing in faintly remembered perfume. Heaven might well be all that was claimed for it.

The faintest of moving shadows caught his eye.

“Good to see you, son.”

A tall man stepped up behind Martha Wayne. He had the classic Wayne looks. Height. Broad shoulders. Black hair and azure eyes. Even if in this exemplar they were not polished to the pre-Raphelite perfection that had literally made the young Bruce Wayne a beauty to be gasped at the resemblance was still sufficient to be self-explanatory.

“Father.” Bruce reached past his mother and held out his hand. A touch hesitant, perhaps, but...

Thomas Wayne took it, folding his son’s hand in two of his own. “You did the right thing down there. Even if it brought you... here.”

“Not much choice.”

“No.” Thomas Wayne smiled. It was the smile that Bruce remembered. One that - now as then - warmed him to the center of his heart. The sadness showed, but far more of the pride his father felt. “I don't suppose you thought there was....”

“Or you would not be here.” A sea-deep baritone finished.

Bruce spun just in time to spot the milk-and-gold form of the Leader of the Eagle Host touching down between himself and the now-kneeling Jean-Paul.

“Zauriel.” Bruce nodded.

“Bruce.” The angel held out his hands. “Welcome.”

“You too?”

“Did you think I would *not* watch for you?”

Bruce looked at the ever-calm face he so well recalled from their shared time in the Justice League. Of course his former comrade would be there for them. Even at a less welcome destination, the fellowship of the League would have drawn their departed member. Only? Bruce felt an unsuspected tension leave him. In hell, the archangel would not have been smiling. So? “Then this is real?” he asked. And it’s... everything you said?”

“Yes, Bruce.” Zauriel stretched a wing out towards the yawning portal. “The gates are open, this time. You can go through them, and inside will be all the peace and love and joy... and even all the pleasure you never allowed yourself in life.” 

Martha Wayne pulled at his hand. “Come along, Brucie.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bruce stepped over to where Jean-Paul still knelt alone. “Come on, Jean. Time for that later.” Reaching down, he started to bring the younger man to his feet. “After all, we’ve got eternity.”

“No.” A grim faced man in hard-worn plate armor appeared before them.

“Excuse me?” Bruce looked at Zauriel, standing unmoved at his side, then back to the newcomer who was now reaching down for Jean-Paul.

The blonde man scrambled back.

“Sono venuto per lei, il mio bambino.”

Slowly - reluctantly - Jean-Paul leaned forward, kissing the scared hand.

Bruce would not have interfered in Jean-Paul’s happy family reunions, but whatever this was? His young friend did not look happy. And - from what Bruce had heard of Jean’s father? He didn't expect the man to be available *for* a reunion. At least not unless they all moved to a much warmer climate.

“Jean?” Bruce asked.

“Chi è questo meddler?”

Jean-Paul clutched at the armored figure’s hand, as if to hold him still. “Santo Sanctus Dumas - perdona lui.”

“Jean.” Bruce moved closer, half shielding the younger man. “This is your Saint Dumas? Here?” 

Personally, he had always considered Dumas’s saintly status more than a little debatable. Not that he had concerned himself with the issue. At least - not while said issue did not first concern itself with him - or his friends. Under the circumstances?

He looked over his shoulder. “Zauriel?”

“Saint Dumas has come for his servant.”

“His *servant*.” Bruce felt his posture shift into Bat-mode as tried to loom over both Dumas and Jean-Paul. “Zauriel! Since when did...”

Zauriel stretched out one gray wing between Bruce and the scowling saint. “This is not your affair, Bruce Wayne.”

“Not my affair.” Bruce pushed aside the feathers. “Is that the voice of the spirit who called down *heaven* itself because he had sworn to the League? I don't know him.” Bruce pointed roughly at St. Dumas. “But I know you. And you know me. And you knows that the League *never* abandons it’s own.”

“Era prima abbandonato. Adesso il ha perso un è ritornato al suo luogo di bono.”

“His place? Excuse me, but if I am not mistaken this *is* Heaven, is it not? Am I clear on the concept, am I not? Gan-Eden? Valhalla? Nirvana?” He met the armored man’s cold eyes with a still harsher glare of his own. “A final destination which - if I am at all welcome - Jean-Paul is most definitely entitled to enjoy. So unless you are telling me that someone up there is planning another Ollie Queen style resurrection?” Bruce lifted one sable eyebrow.

“Peace!” St. Dumas stepped back. Only inches, but it was an opening. Bruce pressed forward.

Dumas reached out and - almost gently - stroked the kneeling mans golden curls. “It is not earth this one is destined for.”

Jean-Paul bent still lower, almost as if flinching even under that most gentle touch. “Ciò che è la sua volontà.”

“Lo Spirito di Vendetta è avuto bisogno di sulla terra.”

“Vengeance?” Bruce snapped. “You want him to ... truly...be Azeral? The REAL Azeral?” Spinning to confront the archangel, Bruce continued. “ Zauriel... you can’t know how Jean-Paul... suffered... when he renounced that part of his training.”

“Che Azeral non era la vera faccia di vendetta.” Dumas’s voice was low. Satisfied. “Adesso mio figlio sarà.”

“Will he?” Bruce kept his attention on the angel. “Zauriel?”

“It must be, Bruce.” Zauriel raised his hand, and a dimly remembered wraith of green and gray poured out of nowhere to form on the angel’s right. Once present, the dark-swathed shape pushed back the heavy hood to reveal a very-familiar face.

“You remember Hal Jordan?” Zauriel's tone made it clear this was not truly a question.

Jordan held out his hand.

Bruce ignored it.

“Far too well.”

“Forgiving as always, Batman.” Hal Jordan smiled faintly, taking in the Bat-grim features of his former friend. “You make me look... merciful.”

“Sanctus, Bruce.” Zauriel rested one heavy hand on each man’s shoulder. “The soul of Hal Jordan has long since earned its bliss.”

Bruce froze under the touch. “If you say so.” 

“Tolerance was never your virtue, Bruce.” Jordan’s smile grew wider. Not quite mocking, but... knowing. The smile of the secrets of the universe. “No - but after all I have seen, it has become mine.”

Bruce nodded slightly. Acknowledgement not agreement. “So you’re giving up the Specter.”

Jordan eased away from Zauriel - easy as smoke - and slid over to stand at the other side of Jean-Paul. Raising the young man to his feet, Jordan answered softly, “I can not leave my post until some other comes to accept it.”

Bruce shifted, trying somehow to cover his friend on both sides. “That shouldn't be hard. From what I remember, half the cloud realm was clamoring for the job.”

“And you denied them.”

“They weren't...”

“Worthy.” Jordan finished the sentence. “That was your word. Have you changed your opinion?”

Bruce felt his jaw clench. He wanted to lie, but... “No.”

Bitter truth. Those who walked the gray between did so less for the failures of their lives then because of the weakness of their hearts. Confused. Bewildered. Torn between self-set demands and unresolved values, they had failed to judge even their own souls. How, then, could they be enabled to weight the value of another's?

Dumas seemed to catch the thought - or at least Bruce’s hesitation - for he addressed himself again to Jean-Paul. “Non sono degni, ma lei sono.” Enclosing the young man’s hands in his own, Dumas continued. “Questo è la sua natura. La sua ragione per l'Angelo di essere.il di Vendetta è *destinato* di pulire la terra. Ciò È che non lei è stato insegnato, mio figlio?”

“Per favore, il santo padrone. Se questo passo di maggio di tazza? Faccio non...”

Bruce reached out, pulling Jean-Paul gently against his own shoulder. “The Angel of Vengeance is *not* his nature. Not any more.”

Jean-Paul returned the embrace, resting a moment in evident gratitude, but when that moment had passed he straightened again. “Nor is it his.” Looking neither at Dumas or Jordan, but only at Bruce, he said. “I will go, Bruce. It is ... what I am.”

“Bull.” Bruce tried for the Bat-glare, but he could not hold it against those desperate eyes. Bruce could see that his friend truly feared what he was being called to do. And he could likewise see that the man would do it. “You are *more* than the Angel of Vengeance. I thought we had taught you that.”

Jean-Paul smiled sadly. “We do what we must, Bruce. You also taught me that.” Returning Bruce’s embrace with one of his own, he whispered. “I will not abandon this Hal Jordan. As you said - I will have all of eternity.” He crossed himself. “Dimitte nobis pecatavis.”

Pushing himself out of Bruce’s arms, Jean Paul walked slowly over to the green-cloaked form of the Specter. Silent, head bowed, he held out his arms.

“No, Jean.” Bruce again stepped between them.

“Someone must accept the mantle.”

“Someone?” Bruce looked carefully at Jean-Paul, then at Zauriel. The angel’s face was impassive, but his eyes were... knowing. Far too knowing, even for the Infinite. Bruce nodded. It was an almost imperceptible motion, but enough. 

Zauriel reached for Jean-Paul, pulling him softly apart from the company.

“OK.” Bruce took a deep breath. “Five minutes.”

“Bruce?” Jean-Paul was clearly confused as he felt himself being guided - gently but inexorably - away from St. Dumas and towards the open gates.

Dumas started to follow. “Mio figlio, ignora questa creatura.”

“Hal?” Bruce met Jordan’s dark eyes with his own. “I’ll take it.”

There was no spoken answer, only the smoke-soft motion as the green cloak wafted silently off of Jordan to drape itself around Bruce Wayne’s unflinching form.

“No. Bruce! Do not...!”

Bruce raised one hand. “Seniority, Jean. I’m pulling rank.”

“Quest' impious un?” Dumas grasped Jean-Paul by the arm. “Non produce a lui. Soltanto il Figlio di Fede è qualificato per giudicare... di punire.”

Bruce spun. “Touch my friend again, and you’ll find out just how qualified I am.”

Seeing Dumas fall back under the force of a not-quite-mortal glare, Bruce shifted his attention to Zauriel. “You.” The word was a growl. “You set me up.”

“I read your soul.” Zaurial lifted gently, rising above the plain of clouds. “ This will be good for you, Bruce, and you will be good for mankind.”

Pushing the deep hood back on his shoulders, Bruce headed back to the three people who had stayed watching beside the gates.

He reached first for Martha Wayne.

“Brucie!” She clutched at her son, fingers clawing for traction among the sage-green cloud.

“Mother.” He pulled her closer, kissing her gently on both cheeks. “I love you.” Raising one gray covered finger, he brushed away a tear from the edge of her eye. “I always will. You know that.”

Turning slightly, he opened his arms to the tall man behind her. “Father. You understand.”

Thomas Wayne yielded to the brief, hard hug. “Yes, Bruce.”

“Please, Bruce.” Jason pressed into the thickening cloud. “You can not...”

“I must.” He guided Jason over the few feet to where Jean-Paul was watching.

The green cloak spun around Bruce, stretching to angry points. 

“Jason? Son?” He drew Jean-Paul forward into the lighter man’s arms. “Look after your brother.”

Jason blinked back his tears. “Can’t I come with you?”

Bruce pulled the hood down over, shadowing his features. “I wish you could.” The green and gray swirled, stretching back towards the rainbow arc. “I don't think vengeance gets a side kick.”

 

*FINIS * DEO * GRATIA*

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©KKR 2011


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